


The Special Delivery Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Special Delivery Affair

Napoleon Solo sat in the shadows against the wall of the dive bar, the leg with the bullet hole in it up on a second chair, listening to the piano player. Chopin was hardly traditional bar music, and if there had been anything like a crowd in the place, no doubt the bartender would have objected. But it was 6 o’clock, and there was only the waitress; the bartender, cleaning glasses behind the long, polished bar; a man and a woman seated at opposite ends of the bar, interested only in their drinks; a young couple at a table, interested only in each other, and Napoleon.

The pianist played slowly, almost hesitantly, as if his mind were elsewhere, or as if he were remembering the nocturne as he went along. The music gave a frisson of elegance to the bar ambience.

Napoleon sipped his whisky, thinking that the piano needed some tuning and the pianist needed something, too. UNCLE’s chief enforcement agent didn’t read music, but he thought he could read this music, and he wasn’t happy with what he was reading.

The waitress came over, leaning close to speak, and he held up his hand. They remained silent until the nocturne came to an end, then Napoleon smiled up at the young, hard-faced redhead.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “That classic stuff is nice.”

Wincing inwardly, Napoleon said only, “A little out of keeping with the decor ...”

“He doesn’t work here,” she said. “He comes in sometimes, when we’ve got a band, you know? Sits in. Larry likes him, so he lets him play.” She shrugged. “Sounds real classy, doesn’t do any harm, as long as the dance crowd isn’t here yet. But you know, he can rock if he wants to.”

Napoleon gave her a dubious look. She shrugged.

“Can I get you another one?”

He nodded and she took his glass. The pianist started noodling, gentle, exploratory scales in minor keys. Napoleon got up, favoring his left leg, and circumnavigated the dimlit room so he could come up from behind, unseen.

When the noodling segued into a recognizeable piece, Napoleon groaned theatrically.

“Oh, God. Not Debussy. You’re killing me.”

He crossed the small stage and laid his hands on his partner’s shoulders, shaking him gently. Illya glanced at him sideways, fingers stilled on the yellowed keys. Napoleon was surprised to see that Illya’s shirt cuffs were folded back, revealing the red weals on both wrists.

A small, wiry black man came onto the stage, nodded at the Russian, then sat behind the drum kit and picked up the sticks that had rested on the snare.

“Will you cheer up?” Napoleon pressed. “You’ll have me weeping into my beer in a minute, and I’m not even drinking beer.” He sat on the piano bench next to his partner; Illya scooted over to make room.

“Come on,” Napoleon said, lower. “The mission was a success. We did our usual flawless work under impossible odds. Don’t brood on the things we couldn’t help.”

 A group of young people in chic clothing came in, crowding up to the bar, ordering drinks in loud, cheerful voices, all at once. The drummer started adjusting various things on his kit.

“Play something lively,” Napoleon urged.

Looking blank-faced at his partner, Illya played a couple of measures of ragtime, deliberately robotic. Napoleon winced.

The drummer whistled. “Damn. Bad day at the office, blondie?”

Napoleon detected a faint glint of amusement in those summer eyes as Illya turned and said clearly, “Shh. My boss is right here.” He tilted his head at Napoleon, who lifted his glass in greeting. “You’ll get me fired.”

The drummer made a face of mock-alarm.

“You wish,” Napoleon said. He leaned against the piano, winked at his partner, and said suggestively:

“Why don’t you sing me a song, blondie?”

The waitress returned with his drink and another icy vodka for Illya.

Illya took a swig, set the glass down on the piano, squared his shoulders and started to play a catchy rock and roll rhythm, fingers dancing in sharp accuracy on the keys. He played around the pattern once and the drummer joined in.

Napoleon’s surprise exploded into astonishment when the Russian started to sing in a tight, cocky tenor quite unlike his usual baritone and wholly unlike his usual self-effacing manner:

 

_Flying across the desert in a TWA,_

_I saw a woman walking across the sand_

_Been walkin’ thirty miles en route to Bombay_

_To get a brown eyed handsome man_

_Her destination was a brown eyed handsome man_

Napoleon smiled and got up, shaking his head as he limped off the stage. People started to dance, gathered in a hip-swaying, hand-clapping circle around the performers. A tall skinny man slipped onto the stage, grabbed the upright bass and joined in seamlessly. Napoleon sat on a bar stool and listened in pure delight, even smiling at the mockery his partner was clearly aiming at him in his choice of song and his slight alteration of words.

 

_Angelique was a beautiful lass_

_She had the world in the palm of her hand_

_But she lost both her arms in a wrestling match_

_With a brown eyed handsome man_

_She loved and lost to a brown eyed handsome man_

_Way back in history three thousand years_

_ever since the world began_

_There’s been a whole lot of good women shed a tear_

_For a brown eyed handsome man_

_That’s what the trouble was — a brown eyed handsome man_

 

Illya glanced up at Napoleon, a gleam in his eye and a hint of a smile on his face, then returned his focus to the keyboard.

 

_Arrested on charges of espionage,_

_he was sitting in the witness stand_

_The judge’s wife called up the district attorney_

_Said you free that brown eyed man_

_You want your job you better free that brown eyed man_

 

The band brought the song to a sharp close and the dancers erupted into applause. Illya picked up his vodka and slipped away from the piano, sidling through the crowd. Napoleon watched the heads turn to follow the Russian, hair glittering, all in black — _you can’t tell me you don’t do it for effect,_ Napoleon thought. Apparently oblivious to the attention, Illya joined him, eyes smiling, chin raised in challenge.

Napoleon said, “You never cease to amaze me.”

Fighting a grin of his own, Illya said, “Any more requests?”

Napoleon shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare.” He indicated his table and they wove through the crowd to that secluded corner.

As they sat down, Illya wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Harder work than being a spy, isn’t it?” Napoleon asked, stretching out in the chair; it had been a clean entry and exit, but his thigh ached if he kept it in one position too long.

Illya replied, “It’s always hot under the lights, no matter why you’re there.”

Napoleon chuckled, touched his partner’s wrist, just above the manacle scores. “Don’t these people ask questions when you come in like this?”

Illya shrugged. “Musicians ... aren’t like regular people. They ask, but, like most people with secrets of their own, they accept evasive answers.”

“Such as?” Napoleon said, dubious. “Paper cut?”

Illya asked, “How is your leg?”

“What leg?” Napoleon asked, eyebrows arched.

His partner chuckled, taking the point. “All right. If you won’t fuss, I won’t fuss.”

“Fair enough.” They clinked glasses.

“Why are you here?” Illya asked then. “Mr. Waverly didn’t change his mind, did he?”

“No.” Napoleon was quick to reassure him. “He still thinks we’re fit for duty. Of course, he’d think we were fit for duty if you’d been decapitated and I’d been disemboweled, as long as we didn’t get any bloodstains on our reports.”

“Then ..?”

“Can’t I just come down and have a sociable drink with my best friend?” Napoleon said, raising his scotch in salute. Illya put his hand flat over the top of Napoleon’s glass and pushed it down, head cocked, eyes narrowed, voice stern.

“Napoleon ... what’s going on?”

“Ah ... you have an assignment.”

Illya waited. Someone turned on the jukebox and the Beatles started to sing about needing help.

“A courier mission.”

“A courier mission?” Illya was faintly incredulous.

“Tomorrow. You’re to go to this address—” Napoleon pulled out a slip of paper, ignoring the scowl descending on his partner’s face— “and speak only to the old man in the wire-rimmed glasses. You are to say ‘the fangs of the rattlesnake are equidistant from one another’ —”

“What?”  The edges of Illya’s tone were definitely smoldering at this point.

“And he will say to you ‘two women were killed while sleeping by coyotes.’ He will then hand you a small box —”

Flames erupted. “Napoleon!”

Napoleon paused, glancing around the noisy bar. Illya took the hint and lowered his voice, but not his irritation.

“Mr. Waverly is sending me on a —” he snarled a Russian word Napoleon didn’t know, but could easily guess at— “routine pickup, wrapped up in melodramatic cloak and dagger nonsense? What is going on?”

Napoleon met his glare levelly. “I’ll be filing reports the whole day. Be grateful.” The look in his eyes calmed his partner visibly. Napoleon touched his arm again. “He’s easing us back in. Don’t take it so hard.”

Illya shook his head sharply, as if flinging off the irritation. “Sorry.”

Napoleon sat back, sipped his drink. “You could have had the day off. But no. Work work work, all the time. You asked for it.” He took another sip, waited. “Do you remember the code phrases?”

“I remember them,” Illya growled, scowling at his vodka. He lifted the glass and drained it.

“Be there at two. You’re to deliver it to the Hotel Grande, suite 2402, by three.” Napoleon slid the note to him. Illya picked it up, glanced at it, and shoved it into his back pocket.

“Don’t get lost,” Napoleon said helpfully.

***

“Lost,” Illya echoed to himself the next day as he stood in front of the address on the note Napoleon had given him. It was 1:58. It might not have been Napoleon’s sort of neighborhood, but there was no chance Illya would get lost; he happened to be familiar with a jazz club just up the street from the dilapidated storefront he was examining. The faded sign read Beerbohm’s Collectibles.

Illya scanned the street unobtrusively, noting the usual parade of colorful working-class pedestrians. He also noticed a barefoot girl, a  pretty dark-haired teenager in beat-up jeans and a pink gauze blouse that was too big for her. She was leaning against the wall, jittery, scanning the street and the storefront and doing a lousy job of pretending she wasn’t casing the joint. Probably the lookout for her boyfriend. Not his problem unless the kid was in there robbing the place right now. Although in the mood he was in, Illya would probably just let him.

He slipped inside the seedy shop, hearing the bell clang harshly overhead as he opened the door. There were no customers and no robbers. The shop had the faded elegance of a once-fashionable establishment that had fallen on hard times as the neighborhood around it sank into disrepute. The glass display cases held interesting carven stones and graven metals, work from many different eras and countries.

The man in the wire-rimmed glasses — now shoved up on his forehead — stood at the counter, looking through a loupe at a silver filigree bracelet.

“Excuse me,” Illya said.

The old man looked up, loupe still in one eye. “May I help you?”

Mentally cursing Napoleon, Illya cleared his throat. “The fangs of the rattlesnake are equidistant from one another.”

“Sorry?”

Teeth clenched, he repeated, “The fangs of the rattlesnake are equidistant from one another.”

The man’s unencumbered eye narrowed. “Why, yes, I suppose they are. I don’t see how they could be otherwise, do you?”

Illya rolled his eyes. Why did these things always happen to him?

Then the old man smacked his own forehead. The loupe popped out of his eye and clattered to the counter and his glasses slid down onto his nose.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, pudgy fingers chasing down the loupe before it rolled away. “Uh, I believe the correct response is ‘two women were killed while sleeping by coyotes,’ yes?”

“You have something for me?” Illya asked, wondering why anyone would sleep by coyotes in the first place. It seemed to him to be asking for trouble.

The old man nodded, set down the bracelet and the loupe and held up a finger. “One moment.” He waddled into the back of his shop.

Illya waited at the counter, tapping his fingertips on it. He didn’t think of himself as egotistical — that was Napoleon’s purview — but he was still irritated at being sent on the sort of mission a secretary could have handled.

The old man came out from the back with a small paper-wrapped box, which he handed to Illya. It was heavy.

“What’s in it?” he asked, not really expecting the man to answer.

“It’s a surprise,” the old man said, twinkling at him from behind his wire glasses.

“Great,” Illya said sourly, tucking the box into his pocket. “I love surprises. Thank you.”

He left the shop and ran smack into a troupe of Hare Krishnas, swirling around him in a sea of orange robes. He felt a tug on his pocket and whirled, instantly aware of what had happened, but the girl was already running toward the alley, dark hair flying behind her. He parted the orange sea and raced after her, cursing his carelessness.

She was fleet, but he gained swiftly, his hand nearly closing on her shirt as she dodged down the alley. She pulled free and he put on an extra spurt of speed — then stopped.

She stood against a brick wall in the alley, panting, laughing. And she wasn’t alone.

Illya examined her cohorts. Four young men, each about 20, each whippet thin but tough looking. The girl, behind them, was watching with excited eyes.

“You’re pretty fast for an old man,” she said. She was exceptionally pretty, flushed, green eyes shining, long brown hair hanging in disarray about her shoulders.

“Hit the road, Jack,” one of them said.

“Or you’ll be hitting the road,” another said, and they laughed.

Illya sighed, spoke to the girl. “Please don’t make me hurt your friends.”

They laughed harder.

Illya tried again. “Just give me the box.”

She beamed at him. “Sure. You can have it. If you can get past my pals.”

Illya sighed again. Had his UNCLE Special been loaded with mercy bullets, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use them. But he was armed with the real thing, and he had no intention of resorting to that level of violence in dealing with children.

“Nice watch,” one of the boys said covetously. Illya pulled it off.

“It’s yours,” he said, tossing it at the boy. As he caught it Illya delivered a quick jab to his stomach; when he doubled over the Russian karate-chopped him to the ground and jumped back to avoid his falling body.

The other three boys danced around him, surprised and worried and alert. One of them pulled out a switchblade, thus becoming Illya’s priority.

“Shouldn’t you all be in reform school somewhere?” he asked. The boy with the knife snarled and came at him, thrusting clumsily. Illya caught his wrist, twisting it hard. The boy yelped and dropped the knife and Illya swung him around, hauling his arm up high behind his back and shoving him into his cohorts.

While they untangled themselves, cursing, Illya picked up the knife and flung it far away. Then the trio, flushed and angry, confronted him.

“Come on!” the girl shouted.

They came at him together. Hampered by the desire to not injure them, Illya considered his limited options and advanced, applying a little of his practical physics training. The first boy he grabbed by the wrist and flipped; the second got a few distracting jabs to the midsection and the edge of a hand to his neck. The last boy came closest to landing a punch — about three inches to the left of Illya’s head — as the Russian took hold of his arm and tossed him into a pile of rotting garbage.

Illya straightened up and adjusted his jacket. The girl was staring, wide-eyed.

“Wow...” she breathed.

“Now,” he said, bending to retrieve his watch. “If you’ll just give me that box, young lady...”

He picked up his watch and heard a man’s voice behind him.

“Straighten up and turn around, mister. Nice and easy.”

He did so. A police officer stood facing him.

“You, girl, come here,” the cop ordered.

The girl came foward, stopping next to Illya. She appeared ready to bolt at any second.

“All right. What’s going on here?”

The quartet of young thugs rolled on the ground, groaning. The police officer looked them over, then returned his attention to Illya.

“These punks try to rob you, mister?”

Illya glanced at the girl — white-faced, watching him — and sighed again. “No, officer. It was a ... misunderstanding.”

“Hey—” The officer started — then drew his service revolver, pointing it at the agent. Illya glanced down to see that his disarranged jacket had left his gun holster in plain view.

“Hands up, mister,” the cop said. “Both of you.”

Illya and the girl raised their hands. “Napoleon will never let me live this down,” he muttered.

***

The officer took them both to the station and into a small bare room where they were told to sit down and wait.

Illya pulled his communicator out of his pocket, considered calling for help, and shook his head, cursing under his breath. No. Not on a routine courier mission, not unless he had a gun to his head. His partner would never let him forget it.

He put the pen away as the door opened and an older police officer, clipboard in hand, came in, shutting the door behind him and sitting down.

“You,” the officer started with Illya, while the girl sat slumped in her chair, arms crossed. “You were carrying a gun. How come?”

“Because it’s easier than carrying a bazooka.”

The girl made a sound like choked laughter.

“Look, don’t get smart with me, mister. There’s a law against carrying concealed weapons.”

Illya fished in his pockets for his UNCLE identification. “My name is —”

He stopped.

“Whatsamatter? Can’t remember your name?”

Illya checked his other pockets. Where was his ID?

“Illya Kuryakin,” he said, still fishing in his pockets. “I ... seem to have lost my identification.”

The officer scowled. “Where’re you from?”

Illya groaned inwardly. Agents were discouraged from identifying themselves unnecessarily, and anyway, without ID they’d have to call HQ to confirm his claim of beloning to UNCLE. He wasn’t about to allow Napoleon that caliber of ammunition for mockery.

“You sound like a Russkie,” the officer said, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What were you doin’ in that alley with them kids?”

Illya glanced at the girl. He really didn’t want to get her in trouble, but his options were shrinking.

“My pocket was picked,” he said. “I ... think this girl or her friends might have been involved. I simply want my property back.”

“What’d she steal?” the officer said.

“I didn’t steal anything,” the girl exclaimed.

“You shut up. I’m talkin’ to him right now. What’d she steal?”

“A small box.” Illya indicated the size with his hands.

“What’s in it?”

Outwardly impassive, Illya cursed extensively inside his head.

“It’s a family heirloom,” he lied. “Small, but very important to me. I think this girl has it in her possession right now. I won’t press charges if she will hand it over.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have it. Whatever it is.”

“You got  a receipt or something for this family heirloom?” the cop asked, still writing on his clipboard.

“Not at the moment,” Illya admitted.

The cop gave him a slit-eyed stare of suspicion, then transferred the look to the girl.

“You. What’s your name?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” she said.

“You’re facing charges of robbery and disturbing the peace, little girl,” he said irritably. “You better behave yourself.”

“Pig,” she said, then reddened.

He rolled his eyes. “God-damn hippies. Why don’t you go back to your family and behave yourself?”

“I — I don’t have any family,” she declared. Illya saw plainly that that was a lie, but the officer apparently didn’t care. He kept writing.

“So you don’t wanna tell me your name.”

“No,” she said.

“And you say you didn’t steal this guy’s ... family heirloom?”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“All right.” He stopped writing, stood up. “The two of you just sit here a minute while I get the paperwork started. Then you can have your phone calls.” Shaking his head and muttering, he left the room.

***

Odessa watched the blond man rise from his chair to pace the perimeter of the room.

No wonder he’d been able to stop her friends without even getting out of breath, even though he had to be at least 25. He moved like a cat, smooth, graceful. Remembering the gun, she thought it’d been a big mistake to pick this guy’s pocket.

“Who are you?” she asked. He ignored her, pausing at the door to peer at the lock.

“Look, mister,” she said. “I’m sorry about ... you know, picking your pocket and all that. I didn’t mean anything personal.”

He straightened up and looked at her, and she flushed, unable to decide whether to be afraid or a little excited at being the focus of that icy-blue gaze.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Odessa. What’s yours again?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

It sounded European. “You had a gun on you. How come you didn’t just shoot us?”

“I was sorely tempted.”

“Are you a cop or something?”

“I believe I fall into the ‘or something’ category.” He laid one hand, then his ear, against the door.

“Yeah. I guess if you were a cop you wouldn’t be in here with me now.”

He returned that cold gaze to her. “If you hadn’t robbed me I wouldn’t be in here with you now. If you give me my property back, I won’t press charges.”

She lifted her chin, defiant. “You’re under arrest too.”

“Only for the moment.” He dug into an inside coat pocket, pulling out some small silvery sticks and selecting one.

She watched, fascinated. In a minute he had the door unlocked and, pocketing the picks, opened it.

“Wow. How do you know how to do that?” she asked. He shushed her, looking up and down the hall.

“Now,” he said, low, “you have one second to hand over my property, or you’re coming with me.”

She shook her head. “No dice, blue eyes.”

He grabbed her wrist, not gently, and pulled her after him.

“Hey!”

“Shut up.” He hauled her down the empty corridor.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, more quietly.

“That was your choice.”

They weren’t going out the way they’d come in. He pulled her around a few corners, then stopped at a door marked “Squad Room,” digging into his pocket with one hand while the other remain wrapped around her wrist.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Leaving,” he said. He pulled out a tiny round object, palmed it, then deftly opened the door with just his fingertips. He flipped the object into the room; it hit the floor and exploded into a cloud of green smoke.

Illya pulled the door shut for  a moment, said, “Hold your breath,” and pulled her through the room.

The smoke was rising to the ceiling. Four policemen lay, dead or unconscious, on the floor of the room. She gaped at them for a second before she was yanked away.

He pulled her out a back door and into an alley where two police cars were parked. Dodging around the cars he hauled her down the alley and to the street.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said, trying to wrench her arm free.

He pulled her against him, roughly. “Behave yourself or I’ll give you back to the police.”

She stopped, frightened by the flatness of his tone.

He waved down a taxi and shoved her into the back seat, climbing in after.

He gave the cabbie the address, then turned a cold glare on her. She shrank against the far door.

“Hand it over,” he ordered her.

Her voice squeaked. “What are you gonna do? Search me?”

“At this moment, I would happily kill you. Except that I loathe the paperwork,” he said. “Give me that box.”

She shook her head. It had to really be worth something for him to be going to this much trouble. Maybe he’d be willing to pay her to get it back. Anyway, he was for sure the most interesting guy whose pocket she’d ever picked.

***

Illya considered turning the girl upside down and shaking the box loose. He sighed again instead. He’d probably set a record for sighs today. At least he had the box in his presence and was on the way to the exchange point. He glanced at his watch. It was already three o’clock.

He looked at the girl. Very pretty, a little too thin; her clothes were slightly less than clean. He guessed her age at about 17.

“Odessa,” he said, testing her name. Big green eyes rose to meet his. “What’s a nice girl like you doing stealing things from people?” he asked.

She shrugged. “A girl has to make a living.”

“Why don’t you just go home and let your parents make a living for you?”

She shook her head. “They don’t ...”

“Don’t what?”

Another, harder headshake.

“Don’t understand?” he suggested, drawing that emerald gaze to him.

She said, “Look, don’t give me the lecture, okay? My folks just don’t get it. At all. So I left. That simple. I’m doing all right on my own.”

“You have no idea the trouble you’ve landed yourself in,” he said. “I could make you disappear without a trace.”

“What?”  She stared at him, more puzzled than frightened. “Over a little box? What’s in it, anyway?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue.” That in itself didn’t annoy him; he was accustomed to need-to-know missions. It was his own clumsiness that made him angry. He’d been as sloppy today as the greenest rookie.

She scowled. “Then why do you care about getting it back?”

Illya sat back against the seat, inhaling slowly. “Because it’s my job.”

As they neared the drop point, Illya had the cab driver stop across the street. He still needed to get the box from the girl, and the last thing he wanted was an incident within sight of the recipient, whoever he was. Another hotel, considerably less upscale, stood across the street from his destination. He paid off the cabbie and shoved Odessa out of the car in the direction of that hotel, vowing that a few private minutes with her would end with that damn’ box in his hands and the damn’ girl out of his hair.

***

The cab driver watched the man and the girl go inside. He waited five minutes, then went inside himself to talk to the desk clerk. Something fishy was going on, and he didn’t like it. The two men came to a quick consensus, and the desk clerk called the police.

***

Illya Kuryakin shut the hotel room door behind him and advanced on Odessa.

She backed away, holding up her hands. “N-now, don’t do anything crazy, blue eyes.” She glanced behind her at the window. “I might jump.”

“Go ahead,” he growled. “After a month like I’ve had, I could use a laugh.”

She gave him an offended look. “If you don’t even know what’s in the box, why do you want it? Why don’t you just let me keep it?”  She lifted her chin. “Or why don’t you offer me some cash to hand it over?”

He kept advancing. “Because in the mood I’m in right now, I’d rather beat it out of you.”

She stopped up against the window, white-faced, and he grabbed her arms.

“Give me that box.”

She stood there, stiff, terrified, until, a long time later, she realized he had no intention of hurting her.

He saw that realization in her eyes and let her go, backing away, cursing under his breath in every language he knew, which was nearly all of them.

She relaxed, watching him pace the room and mutter.

“You ... “ Amazement tangled her tongue. “How come you didn’t hit me?”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Don’t tempt me.”

Puzzled, thoughtful, she said, “If you really want that box, why don’t you just take it?”

He shook his head, stopped pacing to glare at her. “Young lady, if I had to, I would peel you like an onion to get it back.”

She gulped, whispered, “I ... I believe you.” Some strange deep part of her thrilled at the words. He meant it, he’d do it ... God, who was he?

“But I won’t do it without a reason.”

She blinked. “You ... you’re actually nice.” Understanding flooded her mind, and she almost laughed. “You’re a nice man.”

His lip curled. “Don’t push me.”

Something heavy hammered at the door.

“Police!” came a shout. “Open up!”

Illya realized he hadn’t locked the door even as it swung inward, revealing a burly red-haired police officer. Sliding his nightstick back into his belt, he scowled at Illya, then at Odessa. Neither the spy nor the girl moved.

“All right,” the cop said, planting his hands on his hips, confident he had the situation under control. “We got a report of some indecent preversions going on here with an underage girl.”

Illya stared, dumbfounded.

“You,” the cop barked. “Blondie. You got somethin’ to say?”

Odessa moved closer to Illya, who opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to find the words he needed.

“Well?” the officer demanded.

Odessa widened her eyes in faked astonishment. “Officer, what on earth are you talking about? There isn’t anything indecent going on here! Why ...” She threw her arms around Illya and kissed him on the cheek. “He’s ... he’s my uncle.”

The cop gaped at both of them.

“Your uncle?” he said, sharp, suspicious.

“My favorite uncle,” she said, hugging him tighter. Illya reached up to loosen her arms from around his neck. “He’s the only one who really cares,” she said, laying it on. “I was going to run away from home, but he found me. He wants me to go home.”

“That the truth, mister?” the cop said.

“All I want is for Odessa to go back where she belongs,” Illya said with perfect honesty. She stomped on his foot.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, uncle.” She beamed at him, smooched his cheek again. He smelled good.

The cop scowled at them both. “You sure everything’s okay, miss?”

“Of course.” She transferred her radiant smile to the officer. “Thank you for being so concerned, though.”

He shook his head. “All right, then. I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you, officer,” she said again as he went out, closing the door behind him.

Illya immediately pulled free of her stranglehold.

Odessa’s beaming smile faltered as she caught hold of one of his hands.

“Oh!” She plucked at his cuff delicately. “What happened to you?”

He glanced at the red welt on his wrist.

“My job,” he said, pulling his hand free and his shirt-cuff down.

She stared at him, sympathetic. “What the heck do you do, anyway?”

He said, deadpan, “I’m a professional hero.”

“Wow. Then it’s a good thing I kept that cop from arresting you,” she said, wondering what he really did and why he wouldn’t just tell her. He acted like he was a secret agent or something.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Illya said warily, “but what was that all about?”

She shrugged, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Nothing. I just didn’t want you to go to jail again.”

“Your uncle?” he said.

“Well, you’re too young to be my dad,” she said, looking him up and down appraisingly. “And you’re too old to be my boyfriend, even though you’re really cute. You’re even kind of sexy. Except for the suit.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Thank you. Since you are now apparently smitten with me, may I have that box?”

Odessa looked at him. “Sure. You can have it.”

He waited, suspicious.

“But I want something from you.”

He looked out the window, glanced at his watch. It was nearly 4 o’clock. “Would you mind hurrying up a little?”

She didn’t answer. Finally he turned from the window. “What do you want?”

She felt her face heat, but she was nothing if not bold. “I want a kiss.”

***

At 3:45, Napoleon left the hotel room and went downstairs, anxious. He stepped out onto the busy street, scanning it for a taxi, a small blond pedestrian, some hint that Illya was on his way. There was no possible way the courier mission itself could have taken this long, but the number of things that could foul up even an ordinary day for an UNCLE agent was myriad. Considering whether to go to the shop and pick up his partner’s trail, Napoleon glanced idly up at the hotel across the street. Through an open curtain on the third floor he saw an unmistakable flaxen head of hair, briefly, until it moved away.

Puzzled — could Illya possibly have gotten the wrong hotel? — Napoleon quickly guaged the traffic patterns and trotted across the street.

***

He was obviously dumbfounded. The expression suited him, Odessa thought.

“What?”

“You heard me, blue eyes. You want that box, you pay my price.”

“Ridiculous,” he said, and her eyes narrowed.

“What’s the matter, you don’t think I’m pretty?”

_Why do these things always happen to me?_ “I haven’t given the matter so much as a passing thought.”

She danced toward him, smiling coquettishly. “Well, think about it now.”

Seeking an avenue of escape, he considered a frontal assault. After all, she was a child, however much bravado she layered over it.

“How old are you?” he asked, crossing his arms and dropping his tone an octave. She stopped her vamping, but didn’t retreat.

“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked.

Illya thought about it. “Good point.” He moved forward, slowly, smoothly. She flushed red again and backed up, then caught herself.

He kept coming. Slowly, expressionless except for his eyes. There he revealed just a little of who he was, a glint of what he could do. She paled and started backing up again.

“You can’t scare me,” she said, but her voice said otherwise. She hit the wall, started, and finally pulled her hands out of her pockets as if to fend him off, although she didn’t raise them.

He stopped a foot away and uncrossed his arms, planting his palms on the wall on either side of her and looking her over. Her fists were clenched, her eyes wide and her breathing shallow.

“Are you going to give me that box?” he said, his tone subterranean now. “Or are you going to force me to take it?”

With a little gasp she slid her arms around his neck, pressed herself tight against him and kissed him. Extremely well.

_Okay_ , he thought, _maybe she wasn’t a child_.

“I don’t mean to interrupt—”

Illya jerked back. Odessa didn’t release him, in fact leaned languidly against him, nuzzling his neck as he turned to see Napoleon standing in the doorway, staring.

“The door was open,” he said, half smiling.

With a growl Illya disentangled himself from Odessa and glared at her, snapping, “Hand it over.”

Eyes lidded, smiling dreamily, she dug into the waistband of her jeans, around the back. She pulled out the box — and his UNCLE ID! — and laid them in his hand, whispering, “Here you go, blue eyes.” Her fingers caressed his as she pulled her hand back.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your  ... friend?” Napoleon asked, coming a little closer.

“No,” Illya said, shoving the box and his ID into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

Tsking, Napoleon slid past him and extended his hand to Odessa.

“I’m Napoleon.”

She looked him over. “I’m Odessa. You know him?” she nodded at Illya, who, Napoleon thought, actually might have been blushing. Priceless.

He kissed her fingers, peering closely at her. Good God, she couldn’t be more than 18. What the hell was Illya thinking? “I, ah, thought I did.”

Illya closed his eyes. His attitude strongly suggested a prayer for strength and patience.

“Napoleon,” he said heavily. “Can we just go now?”

“What about your young lady friend?” Napoleon said. “You don’t want to be rude.”

“Oh yes I do,” the Russian averred. To Odessa he bowed slightly. “It’s been ... educational, Odessa. I fervently hope we never meet again.”

“Illya.” Napoleon was genuinely surprised at his partner’s attitude. “I never thought of you as the love ‘em and leave ‘em sort.”

“Oh, he doesn’t love me,” Odessa put in, unable to keep all the hurt from her voice. “He hates me.”

“He has an odd way of showing it,” Napoleon said _sotto voce_ as Illya protested:

“I don’t hate you, Odessa.” He took one calming breath. “Why don’t you go home to your family, go back to school, and stop associating with ... punks and criminals?”

She just gazed at him. “You really are a cop, aren’t you?”

He said, resigned. “Let’s just say I’m one of the good guys.”

Napoleon chuckled.

Ignoring him, Illya cupped Odessa’s cheek with one hand. “And I would hate to think of you as one of the ...bad guys.”

She held his gaze for a long moment.

“You know what?” she said softly, attempting a breezy tone. “This was the most ... amazing day I’ve ever had.”

“Go home, Odessa,” he said gently. “Go back to your family and make something better of yourself than this—” he nodded vaguely to indicate her situation.

Napoleon, watching her, found himself remembering his own youth, the days when a boy, or a girl, could fall hopelessly in love in just a few hours.

Finally, she kissed Illya lightly on the mouth and moved away, toward the door.

One hand on the handle, she smiled and said, “I’ll think about it. Bye, blue eyes.”

And she was gone.

Illya looked at his partner.

“Are you planning to tell me what that was all about?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head, but said, “Later. I’m late.”

Napoleon blinked. “Oh. Right. Let’s go.”

 

Napoleon flashed his ID at the burly guard outside the hotel. Illya was surprised that the drop site would be a public hotel rather than an UNCLE safehouse.

There was another guard, a new Section 2 agent Illya knew on sight, on the 24th floor, waiting by the elevator doors. He nodded to both agents as they exited the lift.

“What exactly is this I’m carrying?” Illya asked his partner as they walked along the corridor, the thick carpet silencing their steps.

“All will be revealed in time,” Napoleon said as they reached suite 2402. Napoleon knocked, then opened the door, indicating his partner should precede him. Illya saw a hint of a smile in his partner’s eyes as he stepped into the room—

“Surprise!”

Illya stopped. The hotel room was filled with streamers and balloons and UNCLE employees, all flinging confetti and smiles in his direction.

He felt his partner’s hand in the small of his back, shoving him into the room. The crowd parted, laughing and chattering, and he was pushed to a table, laden with Champagne, ice cream, and a huge cake, ablaze with candles and iced with the words: “Happy Birthday Illya!”

Illya turned to look at his partner. Napoleon was grinning, delighted with himself and the situation and the complete astonishment on his partner’s face.

“Surprise,” he said simply.

“Blow out the candles!” Lisa Rogers said.

April Dancer slid an arm around his waist, kissed him warmly on the lips, and said, “Make a wish, Illya.”

Illya looked around the room at the expectant faces of UNCLE friends and acquaintances, then at his partner’s still beaming countenance. He shook his head, bent over the cake, and blew out the candles.

Applause filled the room — joined a moment later by many voices, in nearly as many keys, singing “Happy Birthday.”

Illya had time for one more wondering stare at Napoleon before he was beseiged by women.

Napoleon watched in amusement as his partner was overwhelmed by birthday kisses from numerous female agents and UNCLE office personnel, eager for the chance to get past his defenses. Illya blushed and smiled and didn’t know where to turn or what to say. The American poured himself a glass of Champagne, toasting his own successful mission.

***

After the last guests departed, Napoleon and Illya took the final bottle of Champagne out onto the balcony of the room and sat side by side to share it.

They clinked glasses and looked out over the lights of New York. Up this high the traffic noise and smells were muted, and a cool autumn breeze freshened the air. Illya sighed softly. Last one for the day, he promised himself.

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” Napoleon asked.

“It only means I’m too full of cake, ice cream and Champagne to kill you tonight,” Illya growled in his best anti-personnel tone. Napoleon wasn’t fooled.

“In that case you might want to open your present now.”

Dismayed, Illya said, “Napoleon, you didn’t have to —”

“Oh yes I did. If I hadn’t sent you on the mission of picking it up, I never could have gotten you here in the first place.”

Illya sat bolt upright. “The box?”

Napoleon smiled, sipping his Champagne. “Right in one.”

Illya pulled the heavy little box out of his pocket and glared at it.

“Do you mean to tell me I spent the whole day dodging the police and teen-aged girl gangsters to bring my own birthday present to my own birthday party?” Illya returned the glare to his partner. “Why didn’t you just invite me?”

“You wouldn’t have come.” Napoleon took a sip of the Champagne. “Besides, how was I to know you’d get into so much trouble on a simple courier assignment?”

“I might have come,” Illya grumbled, pouting. Napoleon raised his eyebrows, looking askance at him. Illya, keenly aware he’d been seen through, defended himself weakly with, “What makes you think you know me so well?”

But he started to unwrap the box.

Napoleon grinned over the edge of his glass. “Careful. It’s booby-trapped.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. You and your surprises.”

Illya opened the box and let the heavy object tumble out into his hand. The cool smooth shape felt strangely familiar in his fingers. He glanced at Napoleon’s impassive face, then got up and went inside so he could see it in the light.

“Oh, Napoleon ...”

It was a jade tiger. The last time Illya had seen it had been three months ago in Kiev, on a brief mission behind the Iron Curtain. In disguise and under pursuit, the agents had hidden in a musty little shop in a side street, where the figurine had struck Illya’s eye and heart, touching some deep emotion he had not been able to articulate. Only the immediate need for flight had prevented him from buying it.

Napoleon hadn’t seemed to make particular note of Illya’s reaction at the time; in fact, they’d been separated for a while afterward. Illya shook his head; he should have known. Napoleon noticed everything.

Something else was in the box — an ebony stand, with a line engraved on it:

 

_Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness!_

 

Illya gazed at the tiger, blinking rapidly, then wrapped his hand securely around it and returned to the dimlit balcony. He reseated himself beside his partner, now draining the bottle of Champagne into their glasses, expertly dividing the last drops with perfect equality.

Running his thumb along the smooth cool jade, Illya sought for some faked annoyance to inject into his tone. “Some day — just once — you’re not going to be right. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

Napoleon said, “You’d better be.”

Illya surrendered. “Thank you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon handed his partner the glass of Champagne. “Happy birthday, my friend.”

 

The End


End file.
